


With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Slept

by oxymoronassoc



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Ainsley meet in a bar and it goes from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Slept

She always wears her hair—or rather, she OFTEN wears her hair in that long blonde ponytail that rides high on her head, wrapped in a braid or not. Whatever—that isn’t the point. He wants to grab hold of that long queue of hair, wrap it around his hand, and tug it hard and firm. His palms itch for it every time he sees her and her perky smiles and, especially, when she’s licking cupcake frosting from the wrapper with the enthusiasm of a child...but for him, it’s anything but childish. He shifts, adjusting his Brooks Brothers' pants, clears his throat, and loses track of the topic for the umpteenth time.

You’re an idiot, she tells him, for the millionth time.

He scoffs and changes the topic to…whatever they’re supposed to be talking about. He has no idea what it is.

She props an elbow on the table and puts her chin in her hand. She smiles at him with a smile only the devil can bestow. I understand now, she says and he so doesn’t but he’s nodding out of habit. She shakes her head. You with your WASP-y good looks and your chiseled jaw and your charm and your—she wrinkles her nose here—your idealism, you’d think ladies would fall into your lap… But—

She’s leaning back in her chair now and steeples her fingers, and for god’s sake they’re in the Roosevelt Room, like she gives a shit, and she’s smiling the smirk of victory.

But, you’re a klutz. She laughs, lets her chair tip forward onto all four feet, splays her hands across the table. You’re adorable, Sam Seaborn.

He fumes for a silent moment. It isn’t like this is the first (or last) time he’s heard this.

“So the third paragraph,” he says with the barest of pauses to acknowledge: yes, she’s right. He’s an idiot with women.

\---

“Ainsley,” he says one night.

“What?” she asks snappishly.

“I think this is done. Let’s go get a drink.”

She pauses for a minute, her mouth in a frown before she rises from her seat. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he’s startled for a minute, thrown off by her agreement.

She smiles wider. “Okay. I’ll see you in ten.” She saunters off, papers in hand, her ass swinging in an improbably allure manner, even clad in boring black pants.

He stands there frozen for a minute before he screams for Ginger. “Get Donna over here!”

\---

Donna stares at him for a minute in silence before laughing in his face when he tells her his request. It’s quite a boon, really, all things considered. When she stops laughing, when he’s still standing there, hands on hips, she sobers up and firms her mouth into a tight line that is just barely this side of a smirk.

“White shirt, black suit, narrow tie,” she tells him with what’s supposed to be a reassuring nod.

He grimaces. “Aren’t skinny ties for kids?”

She makes a moue that he thinks is of agreement before she opens her mouth: “Well Josh…”

“Whatever Josh does is wrong. I’ll wear it.” He rips the thin piece of silk out of her hand and knots it around his throat. She adjusts it and he glances down at her tightly. “Don’t tell him I said that,”

“Who do you think I am?” she asks with a laugh.

He nods and tries to check himself out in the reflection in his monitor before pulling on a clean black suit jacket.

Donna stares at him a long moment, blank faced. “You’ll do,” she says finally.

He nods and inhales. “Thank god.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks as he brushes past her.

“What I said,” he replies over his shoulder.

“I’m telling Josh!” she calls after him, a smile on her face that calls her bluff without him having to reply.

\---

He meets Ainsley at a bar that Donna suggested (and he’s sure told Ainsley too). He sees her halfway down the bar, her hair still in its long ponytail. She’s talking to some guy, though, and he doesn’t know what to do. His insides—his brain—panics, and he orders a double of Jack as soon as the bartender makes eye contact. He passes his card across for the tab and drowns the drink in two gulps that he barely tastes, eyes glued on Ainsley.

He orders another drink—a Jack and Coke—and he’s still staring so hard he thinks his eyes should be boring holes in heads, but Ainsley’s yet turn and look at him. He can see the creamy white skin of her back, the curve of her spine, through the two criss-crossed straps of her navy dress, and he’s paralyzed with indecision,

Until. Until this guy touches her upper arm and she takes a half-step back, rejecting the advance. Sam downs his drink and strides down the bar.

“Ainsley,” he says, sliding his arm around her waist and she sinks backwards into the side of his body, smiling up at him.

“I’m so sorry,” she says to whoever it is she’s been talking to, her long drawn out vowels music to his ears. “You know Sam Seaborn, right?”

The man recoils, nods, and slinks further down the bar.

Sam frowns, shifts his body, corners her against the bar. “What the hell was that?” he says softly.

“Oh Sam, lighten up,” she laughs, bracing a hand against his chest. “Buy me a drink?” she asks.

He rolls his eyes and takes a step back, signaling for the bartender. “Double Jack and soda on ice and—“ he looks at her and she smiles and leans over the bar.

“Seven and seven, extra cherry, don’t forget the lemon twist.”

“That was stupid,” he tells her a moment later as they sip their drinks.

“What was? Having a drink with you? Probably.” She sucks her straw in a sputter against the bottom of her glass before setting it down with a definite click on the bar.

“What no, I mean—“

She flicks a finger to the bartender and orders them each another of the same before she smiles at him with a self-satisfied grin that cuts of his words. “I know what you meant. You men, you think you’ve got to protect us ladies. Let me tell you—“ She takes a healthy suck of her new drink and flicks a smile to the bartender—“Let me tell you, Sam. We know how to take care of ourselves. More to the point, when we’re in a tenuous situation, we know to bring a friend and have a signal.”

He knocks back a third of his drink. His hair is flopping against his forehead against his will. “Do you have a signal?” he asks with a sigh.

She laughs up at him, shaking that blonde ponytail as she sips her drink. “I didn’t bring a friend, Sam. I’m not scared of you.” She licks her lips and sets her drink on the bar, her blue eyes never leaving his.

He takes a hard swallow of Jack in reply and almost chokes on it.

\--

They go back to her place. She’s got the door open and, a second after it shuts with a definitive click, he’s all over her. Or rather, he takes that extra half-step closer to get all over her, and she chuckles at him in this knowing way that scares him even as it invites the advance.

“My goodness,” she says, pushing him back a step with a hand on his chest as she drops her purse and keys into the tray by the door and removes her coat. “Anyone would think you just took me home out of duty to my inebriated state.”

“Shut up,” he says, struggling out of his own wool overcoat.

“You’re an idiot,” she tells him again, pushing the coat down his arms and onto the floor as she backs him into the wall of her front hall. “Sam,” she sighs against his throat.

“Yeah?” he replies, Adam's apple hitching even now.

“Sam,” she growls, grabbing hard onto his tie and yanking as she rising on tiptoes to kiss him.

“Fuck,” he swears into her mouth and she pulls back.

“You said a naughty word,” she drawls.

He scuffs his foot and opens his mouth. She covers it with her hand.

“I don’t want your apology,” she says, still holding onto his tie. She jerks it and smiles, turning and sauntering down the hallway. He’s forced to follow and he doesn’t like it—he sputters his protest and she ignores him.

They bypass the living room and the kitchen as she drags him, like a reluctant dog, to her bedroom doorway. There she lets go of his tie and steps into the dimly lit room. She flicks a switch that lights the two lamps on either table beside her wide bed. “You’re an idiot, Sam,” she drawls again as he leans against the doorjamb to her room. She glances at him over one shoulder and suddenly, with a flick of her fingers, the straps on her gown are sagging and the bodice slides down her chest and the skirt over the curves of her waist to pool at her hips. 

She steps out of the navy crepe, clad in thigh-high stockings and her panties, the curve of her bicep the only thing protecting her breasts from his view even as her platinum ponytail bobs against the upper curve of her spine.

He stares at her too long, in her Louboutin high heels and the seam on her sheer hose that gos from her ankles up to end on perfectly rounded thighs---

He clears his throat. “I should go,” he says.

“Alright,” she replies, flicking her ponytail forward over her shoulder as she kicks the dress a few feet away from her. “If you want.”

“I should,” he repeats again, his fingers digging into the molding of her doorjamb. 

“Okay,” she tells him dismissively, dropping her arm and combing the end of her ponytail, dismissive of him.

He swallows hard; he can see the curve of her---he shouldn’t be thinking about her, should definitely not be LOOKING at her. But he is and his mouth has gone dry and his pants are suddenly way too tight.

“Sam?” she says, the sharp curve of her chin appearing over the creamy slope of her shoulder. “I thought you were going to go…”

“I… I am.”

“Okay,” she says again, her eyes never leaving his.

“Fuck,” he swears softly for the second time that night.

“Sam?” She licks her lips, still looking at him.

He says nothing as he crosses the short space between them. One hand slides across her hip, caressing the jutting bone beneath the skin. The other slides up her ribcage to possessively cover one of her breasts.

“Sam?” she says again, only this time its less of a question as she flexes her spine and she pushes her ass hard back into his pelvis. Her mouth opens as she grinds herself against him: he’s already more than half-hard already.

“You want to fuck me,” she says and it isn’t a question as he bites her on the curve of her neck and she makes a breathy little noise and shoves her ass harder against his dick. “Oh, you do, so hard, don’t you? Ever since I came into your office…” She makes a noise as his hand clenches hard on her breast and she leans into it even as she rides her ass harder against his dick and his hips. He moves his other hand from her hips to her other breast and they both grab hard, kneading and squeezing her and she gasp quietly in counterpoint to their harsh breathing.

She smiles and licks her lips. “You want to prove you’re a man. You want to dominant me. You want to show whose boss. You always have. I scare you. I threaten you. I undermine you. I’m too much for any of you—that’s why you put me in the basement. And still—“ She shifts her hips and grinds back against him harder. “And still, I do my job so, so, so well, and—“ She glances at him over her shoulder. “—And I own you boys. At your own game.”

“Shut up,” he finally says, shoving his hips forward against her ass, grinding his dick into her panties where they ride high between her ass-cheeks.

“God forbid I ignore an order from Sam Seaborn,” she pants.

“You’re a tease,” he growls and she feels a sudden gust of cold air on her left breast and then a weight dragging, slowly, carefully, at the last third of her ponytail, dragging her hair back. “You’re a tease,” he whispers against the side of her throat.

“Yeah?” she says, hooking a heeled foot behind his calf and sliding it up and down his pants leg. “How come it’s just you here? Why isn’t it Josh? Or Toby? Or Leo?”

“Shut up,” he snarls and shoves her hard into the edge of the mattress that stands a bare foot away from them.

“Are you gonna fuck me like this?” she asks in that lazy drawl that sends him into a frenzy when it’s talking law let alone right now. She wiggles, sliding her silky ass against his pants and he wants to die. “Are you going to, Sam? Gonna fuck me with my feet braced on the floor with my stockings still on? You, with your suit still on from the White House? Are you gonna fuck me with your clothes on? Cause, really, I don’t care.” She braces her forearms on the bedspread, against the mattress, and hooks a foot around his thigh just above the knee as she shoves herself backwards against him and grinds herself against him once more.

“Jesus,” he swears and he hesitates for a minute. Her foot goes slack against his leg and she lets her shoe fall off her foot with a muffled thump.

“Sam,” she says, struggling for a moment to roll over and not kick him (he gallantly steps back—of course he does). “Sam,” she says, on her back now, her thighs sprawled open and her other shoe off while he stands between her ankles, looking indecisive. “Sam,” she repeats, curving her left foot around his ankle while she smiles at him from the bed, “You’re an idiot. Gonna get performance anxiety now?” she breathes, curving one arm around his neck and pulling him down to her while the other reaches up and caresses his cheek.

“Ainsley,” he says and she shakes her head to cut him off.

“You want me, right? And I want you…” She arching up against him and kisses him hard, tongue sliding into his unresisting mouth, tangling with his after a bare moment and then he’s pressing her back onto the mattress and she knows she’s won.

“Take your shirt off….no not your tie…” she mumbles as she kisses down his throat, biting him carefully, her left hand fisted in his narrow black tie. Do guys even get it what a narrow tie in a black suit with a white shirt does to a woman? She doubts it.

He says her name again as he struggles out of the white cotton and finally drops his shirt to the floor.

“You’re hot stuff, you know that,” she tells him as he pushes her further across her bed and climbs onto it. She raises her legs, wrapping they around his hips, and he shakes his head.

“You’re going to kill me.”

“I can’t kill you,” she laughs. “Not without serious consequences.”

“Shut up,” he mutters kicking one shoe off and then the other.

She laughs, a hot exhale of breath against his throat before suddenly she slides down a few inches beneath him and bites him hard on the top of his pec.

“Fuck,” he hisses, flexing his hips hard into her.

“Take your pants off,” she mumbles against his skin before biting him again. “Take them off.”

“God, you’re pushy,” he mutters as he rears back and hastily unfastens and unzips his pants, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

“Mmm, boxer briefs, I knew it,” she says between kisses,

“You’re a know it all,” he tells her,

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” she replies.

He silences her with a kiss that leaves them both gasping for breath before he grabs both her hands, pressing them over her head into the mattress.

“Roll over,” he says thickly.

She laughs low in her throat even as she does as her asks.

“From behind, Sam?” she asks breathily. She’s excited enough to know it doesn’t matter how he fucks her and he’ll know it as soon as he touches the crotch of her already damp satin panties.

He’s holding her ponytail again, holding it taunt as he kneels behind her, his cotton-spandex riding up against her silky panties, right between her ass and below. She can’t pretend she isn’t into it.

“Uhm,” she starts to say and he leans over her back, his dick ridding right up between her ass cheeks and she swallows her taunt.

“Ainsley,” he says, his breath hot on her cheek. “Ainsley, trust me.”

Jesus why does he say that now? She wonders ever as she shoves her ass back in reply. He lets go of her right arm and her left hip and he leans back behind her, though she doesn’t look, but she knows he’s pulling off his boxer-briefs before she hears the crackle of the foil on the condom.

“Ainsley,” he says again, placing it in her right palm while his left hand drags through the end of her ponytail. She swallows hard and lets his right hand and then his left too guide her hand backwards to help his hands smooth the latex over his dick.

"I'm real wet, Sam," she mumbles into her bedspread, her thumbs hooked into the lacy sides of her panties as she begins to drag them down her hips and over her ass.

"Jesus, why do you say things like that?" he asks, in a strangled tone even as he helps her pull the underwear over her knees where they get discarded around her left ankle and drop eventually to the floor.

""cause it's true," she says and then he's touching her there between her legs and--Oh God, she wasn't lying. She's hot and wet and slick and it's all for him. He feels a momentary thrill of success shoot through his body, up into his chest, and he doesn't know if he should be feeling this way, but luckily his fingers are ignoring his stupid brain and still sliding against her soft, damp flesh. She's making these noises now--they're lower, deeper than he expected from her (maybe he'd fantasized she was a screamer, that one day, that one time--it hadn't been totally his fault!; she'd been eating a popsicle! Who serves popsicles in the White House?!).

"Oh my God, yes, Sam, right there. Yes. Oh." She lifts her forehead up from the duvet for a moment and licks her lips. "Aren't you gonna fuck me?"

He wants to say "Who says that?", but this isn't the time and his mouth couldn't have formed the words even if he'd tried. His fingers move faster, firmer against her and she's getting more high-pitched with the gasping breaths she's taking, and now....now it's his turn. He pushes her knees a little further apart and moves one hand to her hips and the other to his dick, positioning them both before sliding slowly, carefully into her. She's hot and wet and tight and Jesus it's even better than that 25 second fantasy he allowed himself in the shower last week.

He sighs her name as one hand steadies her hips, and she helps him set a rhythm that isn't too slow but not too fast either. Her ass slaps back into him and their bodies make a thick, wet sound that he can just barely hear over the roar of his own breathing in his ears.

In his fantasies, it was always quick and rough and fast and hard, but somehow this is better. She's not screaming; instead that raspy drawl has turned into a husky pant that periodically voices an encouragement that just makes it _that much_ better. He moves a hand around, over the smooth jut of her hipbone, between her legs again, and begins to touch her again. Her breathing picks up pace and a soft whimper creeps out of her throat.

"Oh, Sam. Sam..." She moans softly, tossing her head to one side, the ponytail sliding along the curve of her spine to rest on the bed beside them.

His hips begin to move faster, as do hers. She presses back, arching her back, whimpering when his fingers finally hit just the right, slippery spot.

"Don't stop," she begs--the only time he'd ever heard or ever will hear her beg--as she thrusts herself against those long, patrician fingers. "Don't _ever_ stop." Her hips begin to jerk faster and harder against him, and his thrusts follows.

"Uhn, oh, my...I'm going to..." And then she comes on his fingers, around his dick, squeezing him hard and his other hand digs into her hips and he worries for a moment he might be hurting her but she's making this high pitched noise that can be nothing other than pleasure and his hips slap into her ass faster and harder and faster and harder until there is that tell-tale feeling in his balls and he's coming, moaning her name.

\---

The phone by her bed rings what seems like moments later, though it's been hours. They're spooned together, though Ainsley, obstinate as ever, has one leg thrown outward from the spoon, sprawled away from him even as he curls around her back. His pager joins her phone in a cacophony and they both rise groggily, pushing hair from their eyes.

"I do love these wake-up calls," Ainsley mutters crankily as Sam peers blearily at the note on his pager, whose message he is already sure of.

"I'll make coffee," he tells her, sliding out from between the sheets as she picks up the phone. She gives him a pleased, dewy smile that makes him want to crawl right back in before pointing imperiously towards her kitchen as her crisp voice returns: "Hello? Ainsley speaking. How can I help y'all?"


End file.
